


i know i’m bad news

by MistressKat



Series: in the dark dark [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, M/M, Not Human, Stalking, The Young Blood Chronicles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Patrick stands at the end, counting the shadows. There’s one missing. “Don’t cry, Peter,” he whispers. It comes out like a hiss. “We’ll sew it on.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	i know i’m bad news

**Author's Note:**

> It’s Saturday and I’m in a bad mood. Thus dark fic. Takes place after the [Just One Yesterday](http://youtu.be/dSfKSUd31MM) video. Title from the lyrics.

 

The hospital smells like pain and disinfectant, all the things Patrick associates with the last few months, all the things that tell him he’s alive. There’s no purifying him though; the bile yellow fever that churns under his skin and makes him want to drop to all fours, loping like a beast through the corridors, is here to stay. He knows it now, can feel it sinking into his very marrow until he and it, man and not-man, are one and the same, and all that is left is...  
  
...need and hollow hunger and...  
  
...glint of surgical metal in the dusty operating theatres...  
  
...and the _scratch-screech-tap_ of his claws and oh the taste of fear, he knows it, wants to drink it like warm milk...  
  
Here. Behind this door. He licks it to make sure. And of course, of course.  
  
Patrick laughs. It’s not a pretty sound but then again, he’s not a pretty thing. Never-never was.  
  
“You’ve been running toward this all your life, haven’t you?” he asks, stepping through the doors to the abandoned psychiatric ward. “And now you’ve finally made it.”  
  
The floor is littered with papers and open pill bottles, rainbow of useless talk and synthesised neurotransmitters going _crunch-crunch_ under his feet as Patrick walks in. The air is so thick with chemicals and madness that he thinks he could bite a chunk right off it and chew and swallow it like a piece of prime rib. He feels right at home here, him and his new better body, his new broken-and-stitched-together mind.  
  
There is nothing but silence and Patrick cocks his head and listens to it anyway. It’s not so different from before; what was not said always told him more than what was. After a while, he proceeds slowly, but with no caution. Caution is for those who care for the causes. Patrick only cares about the effects.  
  
The ward reception opens to a corridor lined with closed doors, behind which the ghosts of countless patients undoubtedly reside.  
  
Patrick stands at the end, counting the shadows. There’s one missing. “Don’t cry, Peter,” he whispers. It comes out like a hiss. “We’ll sew it on.”  
  
Somewhere in the distance, people are running. But it doesn’t matter because they are only running away. Patrick crouches low and it feels good, feels strong, his spine bowing, flesh doing what flesh does best; yielding to his command.  
  
“Pete, Pete, _Peeeeeter_ ,” he croons, moving forward through the dust, “I know where you _aaaaare_.” He stops then, breathing fast and shuddery in front of room number two.  
  
“Second to the right,” Patrick says, tapping the door with his hook, nudging it open. “And then straight on till morning.”

 


End file.
